Inside Our Skin
by Little-Miss-Rachel
Summary: He didn’t understand how someone so famous, so beautiful, so strong had ended up so tortured and so weak.


_Inside Our Skin_

**Note: **I am… attempting a chapter fic. I'm not sure how it will turn out or if I'll even finish it, but damn, I'm determined to write _something. _That mindset has brought along this. It's darker, more serious. I'm not sure how many other stories there are like this in the wrestling section of FF. It is very AU, as well.

I must warn you; this is going to contain topics hard to deal with. I won't say them, because that's basically just giving away the plot, so it's just a precaution. If you can't handle it, don't read it. Simple as that.

Anyway, your reviews are always welcome, whether they're good or bad. Enjoy!

I don't own any of the characters, as they ultimately own themselves, and Emery owns the title. The idea is my own, however. Go me! =D

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Her hazel eyes burned with unshed tears. Tidal wave after tidal wave of emotions swept over her: Fear, self-loathing, depression. She stared at the ceiling of the dark room, attempting – quite unsuccessfully and rather pitifully – to clear her head of her unpleasant thoughts.

The only light in the room flickered on the wall above her bed. She quickly fixed her eyes on the light, the brightness blinding her, and she willed it to not go out; to just stay on until she was able to fall asleep. She was terrified of the darkness that engulfed her at night. She was absolutely horrified of the thoughts that entered her brain in the dark. They were like wolves, biting and ripping at her fragile mind, and too much for her to bear. Every night, when the light shut off, she screams.

The light went out.

Trish Stratus' bloodcurdling scream could have been heard for miles, had her room not been soundproof. She thrashed about on her bed, the sheets tangling around her body. Her claustrophobia realized this almost immediately, and she couldn't breathe. She screamed again, this time louder, the sound more desperate than the first; more animalistic. Surely someone would come save her. Surely someone would come give her the sedative she needed.

No one came.

She banged on the walls; she hit the light, trying so hard to turn it back on so the monsters in her mind would fade; she ripped at the door with her fingernails, the nails-on-chalkboard sound not affecting her in any way. She pounded on the door, her fists throbbing unmercifully at her exertions.

Still no one came.

Trish threw herself against the door repeatedly, her mind telling her the darkness was closing in and that the monsters would soon return. She screamed once again and this time her throat ripped. She spat out her own blood and continued to scream.

She felt the darkness wrapping its cool fingers around her arms, her legs, her neck, and she couldn't scream anymore. She felt like she was dying; panic had risen like smoke and choked her. The darkness wrapped around her like a cloak and squeezed, constricting her chest. Trish tried to move, but to no avail. She was frozen to the spot her panic was so great, and she saw Death arrive, a black hooded figure by the window. Soon he began to speak, and his voice made her cry even harder and attempt to scream again. The sound only came out as a raspy breath.

Minutes later the light in the hallway flickered on, and Death disappeared as swiftly as he had come. Someone – her knight in shining armor, she called him – was on their way.

When the man entered the room with a syringe, her whole body visibly relaxed and she collapsed onto the floor like she did every night. The man set the needle aside and helped her into bed. Once she was lying down, he turned on the light above her and gazed at her with kind blue eyes.

Her eyes were red from crying, and her breaths were short and ragged. She moaned when he inserted the needle into her arm, but the effects of the sedative were quickly overtaking her. She smiled feebly up at her savior – the man who always saved her from Death, who came to her every night, beckoning her with his promise of happiness and freedom.

She had once asked him, "Freedom from what?"

His gravelly voice had whispered back, "Freedom from your pain."

When she told him, her savior, what Death had said, Savior – as she didn't know his real name – had said, "Do not believe what he says. He is trying to lead you away from us; away from life. Fear him, Patricia. Do not go near him. He'll only lead you to pain."

Ever since Savior had spoken those words, she was terrified of Death. Terrified of the "monster" that, each night, spoke to her in a harsh voice about how she should follow him, or follow his instructions so she could join him. How she should join him in his world, where pain and disease were unheard of.

She had tried once, and that had ended up with her stuck in this room, away from everyone else.

Trish writhed on the bed, trying to rid her mind of such thoughts; the same thoughts that plagued her all throughout the day and night. It was the only thing she thought about. She rarely focused on another topic. Savior said it wasn't good to dwell on such problems, but how could she not think about Death when he came to her nightly? How could she not think about his offerings of love, wisdom, and peace? They were such lovely thoughts; her life there would be so different than her life here, confined to one room with nowhere to go.

"Go to sleep, Patricia. In the morning we will speak," Savior said to her as he pulled her comforter up to her chin.

Trish attempted to reach up to touch his beautiful face; to marvel in how handsome and truly wonderful this man really was. She hadn't touched a man in so long. Her hand didn't make it, though. The sedative he had injected her with had fully affected her now, and her hand fell onto the bed with a soft thud.

The man waited a minute to see if she would really stay asleep, and when he heard her breathing become more labored he exited the room, locking the door from the outside. He leaned against it and sighed sadly.

"Oh, how the great have fallen," He whispered to the darkness around him. The brunette walked away from her room, but not before taking one last glance at the door.

The sign next to it read: STRATUS, PATRICIA. POST TRAUMATIC STRESS DISORDER/ BRIEF PSYCHOTIC DISORDER.

He didn't understand how someone so famous, so beautiful, so strong had ended up so tortured and so weak.

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**Note: **I'm researching this story intensely. This is only the prologue, so I'm not giving out much information. But really, this is actually exciting me a bit. I haven't put so much thought into my stories in a long time. Maybe I won't give up on it after all. =)


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